Conversations From the Crypt:The Man and the Demon
by Paradoqz
Summary: Vampire takes a look in the mirror.


TITLE: The Man and the Demon.  
SERIES: Conversations from the Crypt.  
AUTHOR: Paradoqz  
EMAIL: paradoqz@hotmail.com  
SHOW: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
SUMMARY: Vampire takes a look in the mirror.  
RATING: PG-13  
ARCHIVE: Please ask.  
DISCLAIMER: Disclaimers: Every concept and character mentioned  
therein belongs to Joss Whedon. Feedback and flames are welcome.  
  
***  
  
Conversation the first: The Man and the Demon.  
  
***  
  
I knew it right then. Knew it with absolute, unshakable certainty, as  
it hit me, choking me with its truth and leaving me gasping for air I  
didn't need.  
  
It was one of those moments where the knowledge that lay dormant in  
your blood, lurking in your undermind, ghosting at the back of your  
brain - one of those moments when it all crystallizes in one blinding  
second of perfect understanding.  
  
I used to fancy myself a poet. I know these things.  
  
  
She didn't take up much space. Even sleeping she didn't feel at home  
here; curled, taking up as little of the bed as possible. Frowning.  
The brows drawn together in a worried, tired expression, half hidden  
by blonde hair.  
  
It was then, with the shadows of the dying candle dancing across her  
face that I knew, KNEW that I would not survive her.  
  
  
I remember when she used to be happy, smiling in her sleep.  
Especially in her sleep. I looked at her for hours, a quiet watcher  
looking in from the outside, crouching in the murky bedroom,  
observing, waiting.  
  
Every night under her window was a piligrimage. EVery stolen moment  
inside a revelation.  
  
She was my temple.  
  
They called it stalking. Stalking? I was praying. Hasids drunken on  
God and majesty of Universe, they'd understand me.  
  
  
He... no, he never smiled. He was smarter than he looked, the soldier  
boy. He knew how it was going to go down in the end. Knew it even  
then, as he lay there, his arm around her in a protective embrace,  
that looked more like a rowning man trying to hold on to a raft. She  
was happy then, smiling. He was already saying good bye. Life's like  
that.  
  
I still got the bottle we split that night when his universe  
crumbled.  
  
  
Odd world. I'd suggest "Sometimes it feels he's the closest person in  
the world to me...  
  
She was his temple too.  
  
  
She asked me about it once. And whatever I said in my haste to change  
the topic, I can't remember now. I doubt she bought it. What use  
does a vampire have for a mirror, after all?  
  
I look in the mirror and I see her.  
  
  
What does she see when looks at me? A demon tamed? A murderer jailed?  
Pathetic remains of William the Bloody? A defanged vampire who  
couldn't protect her sister?  
  
  
I look in the mirror and the absurdity of what I am stares back at  
me. I am looking into the abyss, and it's chipping away at me until  
there is nothing left. If I am not Spike, who am I? If I am not a  
demon, am I a man?  
  
  
It was a strange night. The night of angry Gods and quiet ghosts  
moving among us. Everything changed and everything stayed the same.  
It's strange the things you remember and the things you forget. The  
Nibblet's widening, teary, terrified eyes as I plummeted off the  
scaffolding. I dream about that stare, still. The witch's voice,  
ringing in my ears, comes to haunt me sometimes, bringing doubts and  
strange thoughts.  
  
Why did I trust her. What possessed me to charge blindly into that  
mob on a say so from that red haired little bit. She came through,  
but...  
  
Why did I trust her? Or did I really not give a shit? It's strange,  
that your own thoughts escape you more consistently than anything  
else. I don't remember. I just don't.  
  
I remember the end though. Her body lying bloody and broken on the  
stones, like a sacrificial offering to the Gods of old. The sounds of  
a thousand Hells dying away and my eyes burning, my leg buckling.  
  
She wasn't frowning then. Death was her gift. She finally found what  
she was looking for. I still go there from time to time. It's a good  
place for a smoke and to look at the stars. Strange night. I remember  
that Red cried too, bitterly and without excuses, letting tears drop  
off her face into the hair of her girlfriend. We understand each  
other, Red and I. Blood and tears. Nothing in this fucked up world  
bonds like blood and tears.  
  
I wonder still about that. Does she look at me and wish to see  
someone else? Do they? A century and more has passed and I'm still  
trying to outrun Angelus' shadow. The more times change...  
  
Yeah. That night would have been a good end to it all. But she came  
back. And she didn't need me as she left me: unsure, confused. Not  
quite a man, less than a monster. She needed something else, so I  
gave it to her. Or at least I tried to.  
  
  
They are so fucking clueless sometimes. After all, it was all spelled  
out for them. For her. Death is her gift. But - typical. For her to  
accept it, she would finally have to make her bloody mind up about  
something. Be certain of who she is and what she wants. Can't have  
that. Would cut in on all that high drama shit.  
  
Whatever guise it came at me, I accepted it. I reveled in it. Death  
was not my gift. It was my everything. It was my life. I was William  
the Bloody, slayer of Slayers. Death on two feet. I embraced it,  
embraced who I was, burying the whiney little William with the  
mountains of corpses, drowning him in the seas of blood. Death was my  
reward. Death was my desiny. Death was the alpha and the omega.  
  
Not so for her. She's in love with it, of course -- I told her as  
much. How can she not be? She dances on the edge and looks it full in  
the eyes every night. She flirts with it. She teases. And  
sometime... sometimes she gives in. For a bit. For a split second she  
decides that it's time to french the night.  
  
She went to the Master and bared her neck. She leapt of the tower,  
spilling her life's blood. She gives in sometimes. Fascinated and  
repelled but drawn to it. The death calling out to her. Her Gift.  
Always there when she needs it. Dead things giving her succor, be it  
Angelus or me she calls into her bed.  
  
Until she rebels. Fighting herself. Rejecting herself. Rejecting  
death. Rejecting us. Going back, time after time, into the world of  
the living. Always stronger but never thankful to that which gave her  
that strength. Death is her gift. But she will not accept it. She  
tasted it twice and turned away. She settled for the cold bodies of  
Death's orphans instead. And even them... I'd make "It won't last, I  
know it. Just as my sire, may he be damned for all eternity, knew it  
too..  
  
And yet she would not accept life. TThe daylight is just as foreign  
to her. And so she sent her soldier away. Not dark enough for her. I  
wonder what she'll say to me when it's my turn. Too much of a  
monster? Not enough?  
  
She needs a monster in her man. They all do. Helps them remember who  
they are. What they aren't. You walk too long in the night, you lose  
yourself. They all know it, in their heart of hearts. They all love  
it, just a little bit. They all feel the pull, all were touched by  
the dark and marked all time.  
  
The boy, soon to be married to his demon. Keep her close, whelp. Keep  
her real close. Push to the back of your mind the fears and the  
doubts, of what she was and what she might yet become.  
  
The Redhead. Oh, yes. I can smell the night on her. Growing within. I  
know the rites that brought back the Slayer: it's a blood sacrifice.  
I wonder how the little witch sleeps at night. Does she wake up  
screaming, clutching onto her blonde girlfriend? I bet she does. When  
it's dark outside, when the monsters come. When they wear her face.  
  
They need it, a dose of the real monster, to wake them up. Shake them  
loose from the trance. Before they take just one step closer, go just  
a little deeper into the dark.  
  
And she needs it, more than the rest. The Slayer. The Killer. She  
needs us. Needs the dark mirror to her soul, be it her sister Slayer  
or a bleached vampire. She needs it. Needs something to anchor all  
her fears, all her doubts, all the lure of her gift. Something to  
measure against. Right now it's me. Lucky Spike.  
  
I look in the mirror and all I see is her.  
  
Is this love? Lust? Her smell is everywhere, all around me, and once  
again I forget what I am, and choke on jasmine perfume. Even from  
here, her reflection distorted by dust and dying, flickering candle,  
I can see the faint beat of her pulse. Her neck bared and bronze,  
incongruous next to my paleness. I can feel her blood. I can feel her  
heartbeat roaring in my ears like a thunder of a sea storm, blocking  
out everything else. Calling out to me. Death is her gift. Death is  
my fate.  
  
And all it would take is a quick slash.  
  
Just a drop or two of my blood onto her lips as she bleeds her  
destiny out on the satin sheets.  
  
Happy ending.  
  
Me and Her. Forever.  
  
She doesn't even hear me coming. And it's the easiest thing in the  
world to reach down and...  
  
  
  
****  
  
The pale, half naked figure froze for a moment, one arm clawing the  
air in quietly helpless fury just inches from the woman on the  
pallet. The seconds stretched until the vampire bowed his head in  
wordless defeat, gently pulling the covers over the sleeping Slayer.  
  
Minutes later the candle lost its fight against the night and the  
crypt plunged into darkness, illuminated only by the solitary glow of  
a cigarette.  
  
***  
  
I will not survive her. That much I realize. The truth of it sings  
inside of me, rattling my bones. But what the hell. I'm content for  
now. Even with gaping emptiness of the knowledge that the end is  
coming, inside of me.  
  
I'm content for now, here. Sitting and watching her sleep. I'm  
content.  
  
  
And who's to know.  
  
One day she might just smile. 


End file.
